Airel (13 page)

Chapter XXIX

1250 B.C. Arabia

A tent stood in the darkness, ringed by hundreds of other tents at a distance that suggested supreme command, fear of authority, or both. Choking smoke filled the beaver skin tent as the Seer looked deep within his pulsing bloodstone. 

The blazing light was otherworldly. Even though it was sucking the life from him, he could not pull away. He desired and lusted for the glow of amber light so much that it filled his obsessive dreams every night; whispering to him things he never before imagined. A faint glow escaped from the seams in the tent. The light dimmed, flared up, then faded back to a fragment of its former self. 

The camp numbered a thousand men and a thousand demons. They were weak when the men, the hosts in the parasitic relationship, were separated and the demons were manifest in their true forms. 

Demons, agents of the kingdom of Hell, sought a lodging in the minds of the men and fed on their life force parasitically. Men followed the Seer blindly, obsessed with every filthy lust to which they could give themselves, or to which the demons could tether them. To the men, the demons were men too—they just possessed higher—kingly—authority. This was rarely questioned. They had been blinded and cursed by the power exchange—power they thought they received from the demonic relationship, but which in fact they gave and re-gave time and again to the agents of Hell that fed off it. This deception was an addiction both parties found irresistible.

And their foolish hearts were darkened, blinding them from the truth…
 

The army was trained and seasoned by war. They were fiercely loyal, so long as plunder was available in plenty, but they also feared the Seer. Remarkable was the fear that the bloodstone he carried around his neck garnered. The light that ominously bloomed from his tent at night unnerved them. For this reason, not one tent stood anywhere near a stone’s throw of the Seer.

“Yessssssss… yes, show me what you will have me do… sssssspeak.” The Seer groaned, his body writhing shamefully. His face washed out in the ruby red light, his eyes empty sockets filled with blood, glowing with consuming heat. He looked featureless in the glow as the demon light took his human features and replaced them with something entirely different. The figure that stared into the pulsing pendant was ancient; repulsive, suggesting
real
evil–something that went far beyond description. The Seer was careless of the sucking leeching properties of the bloodstone. He was addicted to it, bound to it, dependent upon it; even as it rotted him from his core.

His hollow sockets blazed their way into the world that lived within the walls of the small thing. His lips parted, showing rotten jagged teeth. Inside the bloodstone, the red cleared just enough to allow him to see in. A man—no: the angel Kreios stood in a wooded place listening and watching. 

“Argh!” The Seer spit and cursed at the sight of his arch enemy.

In answer to his question, pure red hatred split the bloodstone open in a tight beam that spread wide, covering the Seer in a bath of evil. The old man writhed, rocking back on his heels and toppling over, sprawling on the dirt floor. Dust clung to his filth. 

Arms curling into cadaverous claws, the Seer opened his mouth to scream out in pain, but nothing came forth. The bloodstone became hot and burned his hand, melting the skin, filling up his mind with a vision of the future; breaking his will even further. His body nearly snapped as his back arched and he thrashed against it, fought it, spewing and retching—but to no effect.

A silken voice then spoke to him in a lost tongue. He could not have dared to try to speak it, but here in the wretched dirt he could at least comprehend it. “
Listen to me, Seer. You will never be what you are supposed to be if you “fight” like this. I am here to bring you life…a life of which you have never dreamed. You do not have much time. The immortal Kreios draws near to the City of Refuge. You must seize the child before they reach the walls…or shall I have no use for you anymore?
”

The Seer lunged upward from the ground as the red fire from the stone blanketed his body. He hovered wildly and upright, eyes wide and knowing. Clutching the stone, he whined like a whipped dog as spittle drenched his cracked and bleeding lips. The bloodstone went dark, abandoned him. He was thrown violently to the ground. 

Crumpled on the floor like so much waste, the Seer groaned, coming back to himself. He shook his head and got to his feet. He looked at the now cold pendant with dim recognition, as if he was not able to recall something very important. He replaced it around his neck and tucked it under his robe. Hanging over his mind like a ready avalanche was the certainty of the next step the army was to take. He flattered himself that he was a partner with his master. But that was why he was Seer—he was so simply persuaded of his own importance. He did not dare to dream that he was completely replaceable. 

He needed air. He pulled back his hood, revealing the face of a young man with smooth black hair and unblemished pale skin. 

Wickedness housed in a single grin crossed his face. His black eyes simmered in a stew of hatred. He brooded over what he would do to Kreios. The smile pulled taut. He contested with voices in his mind about what would be done with the girl, and as he did, hellish light flashed in his expression. So much enjoyment awaited him. He would try to savor it this time…and Kreios could watch.

Chapter XXX

The three angels silently but speedily packed their small camp, burying the fire and anything else that might leave a trail. Kreios knew they had been spotted, but he didn’t want to throw any bones to the dogs. Since they had a Shadower with them, he knew that the Brotherhood could only track them by following their physical trail—if they left one. 

Kreios glanced at Maria, then Zedkiel. Maria was obviously exhausted at this point, but travel was a necessary evil. No amount of rest would rejuvenate her until she delivered the baby. She needed skilled help for the remainder of her pregnancy or she could die along with her baby. 

Zedkiel had made a decision. “No need to worry about hiding the camp. We must take to the sky and hope that Yamanu can hide us from the surveillance of the Seer.” He shoved the last of the deer jerky into his pack, tied the drawstring, and slung it over his shoulder. His face was drawn tight with worry, but when Kreios smiled he loosened up; bringing back the sparkle in his eyes. 

Yamanu cut in. “Do not be troubled, my old friends. I am as strong as I ever have been, and with the presence of the Sword of Light, I am even more powerful. The enemy hordes will have been wandering in the woods for days by the time they realize we are gone.” He snapped his fingers and dark dust floated in the air, shedding foggy blackness. Whenever he moved it fell off his body to the ground. 

Kreios was itching to go. “The time for talking has now passed us by. We must move. I can feel the army over the nearest rise to the west, and they are moving fast. It will be impossible to fight them in the air while also keeping my daughter and Maria safe. It will leave us outnumbered, with too much distraction from the fight.” Kreios was a practical mind but now he seemed like he had no sense of humor at all. The message was received. This was not a game.

Zedkiel took Maria in his arms and Kreios hugged his baby girl tight to him. He could smell her skin. It was intoxicating. She smelled like sweet lavender with a hint of something that Kreios could not determine—it was not like anything he had ever smelled. But it was the most wonderful scent in the world. 

Kreios sent the horses away with a glance and placed his daughter carefully in her little sling. The magnificent war horses hid themselves deep in the wood, far from where any man would trod. 

The angels rose from the ground in battle formation: Kreios on point, Zedkiel at his right hand and Yamanu on his left, already difficult to see. The air was cool under the brightness of a full moon. A touch of spring could already be felt, a prophecy of hope to them. 

Kreios looked to the west. The unholy flicker of war torches greeted his gaze. Black and gray mist hovered around the airborne cluster of angels like fingers of dark smoke, masking them in shadow. They quickly faded into the night sky. 

Turning north and soaring like eagles on desert updrafts, the travelers coasted gracefully toward a City to which they had never been. They hoped and prayed it did exist. But something they all felt was that it might not be easy to find. 

The sword grew warm against Kreios’s back as if it knew the way home and would lead them. He breathed in a sigh of relief mixed with hesitation. The sword had a definite connection to his daughter—he could feel that very clearly, though he was not sure why. It was difficult to see and perceive the truth after so recently losing the only woman he would ever love; and so bitterly, so unexpectedly. 

He wondered almost aloud what this connection was and what role the Seer might play as well. These questions, and more, bothered him as they soared northward. He would not rest until he was sure that they were safe; in the safest place on earth.

Chapter XXXI

Boise, Idaho. Present day.

When the door opened and I saw Michael Alexander stand up stiffly, I stood paralyzed, hoping with everything in me that what I feared was not happening, that this was all just a bad dream. He was staring at me with an unsettling mixture of awe and disbelief.

“Your head... the…” His voice was soft, questioning and scared. “It’s gone, I mean it just disappeared!” He reached out, muttering something incoherent, trying to touch my forehead. But I ducked and took a step backward. He lowered his eyebrows and folded his arms across his chest.

“Airel—”

My mind refused to function. Despite the fact that I needed it more than ever at this very moment, it hid like a stupid kid on his first day of school, refusing to come out from under the bed. Should I pretend that I didn’t know what was happening? Play innocent? Or should I fess up to the only person I was comfortable fessing up to about this subject?
Why can’t I let myself bring Kim in on all this? But with him…
I looked at the gorgeous guy standing before me. Maybe I knew deep down that he would understand it...  or me. If that was possible. There was no getting around it, though—I was a turncoat. A backstabbing fiend, for sure, because I was totally trashing the feelings of my best friend for…some dude… 

I reached a trembling hand to my forehead and touched the place where, seconds ago, a large goose-egg throbbed. It was smooth, cool to the touch. Healed. 

I stood there with my best impression of a confused, blank look on my face. I looked up at Michael, who was standing so close to me now that I could smell his skin.

“I, uh…” The brilliant words that flowed from my lips in that moment would have made the great poets of the world stop, slack-jawed, and gaze at me in wonder and amazement at the brilliance of my answer. Michael had a tentative hand on my forehead and touched ever so gently the spot where my fatty welt used to be. 

“Does it hurt?”

“No…” I responded, leaving all kinds of loose ends. What blanks would he fill in? 

“Weird, it’s gone. Like it was never there. You sure that doesn’t hurt?” He pressed harder to test out his theory. 

I pulled away, breaking free, and scowled at him. “Well…what. So it’s gone. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was. Maybe I didn’t hit it that hard anyway.” Pretty weak, lame and worst of all, chock full of
maybe
. It sounded like a lie to my own ears, and from the grimace on Michael’s face, I knew that he didn’t believe a word of it either.

“Come on, Airel, what’s going on? You know more than you’re letting on and now you’re lying to me.” He sounded angry and a little hurt as well. I sighed loudly and pulled on a few strands of my hair, and shoved my left hand in my back pocket.

I decided right then that I was going to tell Michael everything and hold nothing back. 

I could not stop thinking about him and was afraid that if I didn’t let him in on everything I would lose him. Lovers don’t have secrets—right? And that’s what we were becoming, quickly. How could I keep secrets from him? 

I didn’t want to lose something with him that, at this point, hadn’t even happened yet. I didn’t want to risk the destruction of something that felt so fragile in my heart, especially by keeping such an important part of myself from him.
He might even be able to help me.
I knew I was reaching for reasons to keep him close.

I sighed, surrendering. “Michael… I’ll tell you on our date.”
Hook, line, and sinker.
“I just need some time to think things over.” I nearly begged him with my tone of voice, “Please don’t be mad! And don’t worry, I’m fine. I
promise
I will tell you whatever you want to know. Just not now.”

Uh-oh. I had promised. And when I promise things, planets start to pop out of their orbits. It’s serious business. That’s what this was now, things were getting…complicated. 

He looked at me with a calculating gaze. Then, as if weighing his options, nodded with a small smile. “Okay.” He took my hands in his and enfolded them. “But you promise to tell me everything?”

“I promise.”

Chapter XXXII

Eagle, Idaho. Present day.

The picture above the bed was large. It was an original painting; the master who had produced it unknown. On the canvas, simply depicted, was a drawn sword. It stood against a black background, alive, shining and luminescent even as a representation in oils. It was the Sword of Light. It hung above the massive bed in a stone alcove in an ornate bedroom of immense size; the architecture ancient, stately.

A killer lay sweating under the painting, spittle dripping, tears flowing from twitching eyes. The mattress, as well as the thick blanket that covered him, was damp with the manifestation of his toil. The room was well above ninety degrees, but he still shivered. His hair plastered itself wet against his scalp. He was more than simply sick.

The things he saw within his bedroom made him consider death as an exit strategy for peace. But he wondered if what was swimming in space above his bed would follow him when he left this world.

There were three lizard-like demons flying about the room. The two smaller ones were birdlike, over ten feet long at full length. The third was twice that in size, with huge sharp spines rising from its back. One of its wings was torn and around its neck pulsed the red glow of molten stone. The character of this pendant was decidedly unholy. Upon the face of the creature, if such a thing can have such a name, was the embodiment of hatred, the essence of malice, the expression of self-prostitution to vengeance at any cost. 

The demon stood, legs spread on the bed, straddling the man, who was curled into the fetal position. It wielded a long curved dagger, which it moved slowly downward; calculatingly, obsessively, until the tip touched the killer’s chest. 

With greater force but no greater speed, the tip of the dagger pierced the blanket, the shirt, the skin, the ribs, and blood began to boil outward from the wound, against the dagger, accompanied by spitting smoke as two realms came into collision. The wings were vibrating with hideous pleasure. 

The killer struggled, trying to escape but unable. He turned his face toward his enemy, with bulging eyes. The big demon was fixed with burning, red eyes as a hunter fixes on his prey. It was an apparition of black smoke mixed with tar, dripping as if wet.

Sickly green smoke came in bursts from the snout of the thing. It crouched, hovering just inches from the face of the tortured killer. The pulsing red stone dangled and came to rest upon his chest. The dripping maw housed hundreds of sharp teeth, discolored by putrid breath and coated in filth. Two horns sprouted from the top of its skull and enshrouded its face protectively. A long thin tongue slithered out and caressed the face of the killer.

The killer flinched and whimpered something unintelligible. The demon smiled above him and laid back its ears, ripping a scream through the air and the killer’s very soul. 

Tengu seized the killer’s shoulders and its claws dug in. The glowing eyes of the demon flared brighter, singing eternal death. The killer cried out for mercy. Tengu shoved a closed fist into his chest and slithered into the killer’s body as if it were a pool of water, not a body of flesh. The sharp tail disappeared with a snap and a twist. 

Bolting upright in his bed, soaked, a killer opened his own eyes, gasping for breath as if surfacing in the sea. He was drenched in sweat, his heart pounding like a hammer, his right hand curled as if grasping a weapon. Heavy in his mind, glowering and cloudy, he beheld a rotting, staring hooded face—one of the very few things that could cause him real terror—but he would not speak name or title tonight.
It has to be tonight or never—there is no more time.